Consequences
by SunflowersAndDandelions
Summary: What really happens when children try to fight wars.


***I own nothing**

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.

Their nephew, on the other hand, had never been able to make that claim. All his life, he had struggled to reach that revered status of "normal" and to shed the heavy cloak of freakishness. He was punished for being "abnormal"; and, while he knew it was deserved, sometimes the hunger and the pain would overcome him. He would curl up in the corner of his cupboard, humming brokenly to himself until his reality drifted away, to be replaced with dreams of a place where he was loved. These comforting dreams almost always slipped into fevered hallucinations, wherein a young woman crumpled to the ground in a flash of green light. Though the injuries inflicted as punishment always healed overnight, each time the boy's eyes opened, they were a little dimmer.

Every morning, Harry was woken by a sharp knock and an even sharper voice. Emerging from his cupboard under the stairs, he was greeted with a sniff of disdain from his aunt, returned by his own slow nod of thanks. For a few seconds she would drop her haughty attitude and nod back, before her face closed up and she shoved him into the kitchen.

The mornings were never too bad. Harry and Petunia worked as a team to ready breakfast for the men of the house, and Vernon was never awake enough to give him a hard time until after his cup of coffee and first serving of bacon. As long as breakfast was adequate, Harry could usually escape back to his cupboard with some leftover toast. On a few occasions, however, he had burned the bacon; as a result, Harry had become a reflexive ducker, allowing him to escape the kitchen with only a bump or two from the flying frying pans. The worst were the occasions when Vernon had grabbed Harry's hands and shoved them onto the stove. The pain of attempting to clean and garden with his charred hands had caused the boy to collapse once or twice.

Dudley had taken after his father and ensured that at school, Harry always lacked both food and friends. The invention of "Harry Hunting" had been one of Dudley's more ingenious ideas, and when Harry began to outrun his brutish friends, Dudley had bullied the smaller, faster children into chasing down Harry for him. The one time Harry attempted to hide in the library, the librarian had taken one look at his rumpled clothes and muddy hands, and chased him out. His inability to look respectable or to bring in his materials and homework put Harry at the bottom of the list with most of the teachers. He was a slow reader, having such difficulty that the school suggested the Dursleys enroll him in a reading program – a suggestion that was immediately dismissed as a waste of money. His excellent math grades were regarded as a fluke, and the second time he returned home with a perfect test, the Dursleys reported cheating to the school. Harry was made to clean blackboards after school for a month, while carefully changing the bandages on his arms whenever he could find a moment to himself.

The strange and seemingly impossible events that occasionally occurred around Harry only made things worse. Once, Aunt Petunia, tired of Harry coming back from the barber's looking as though he hadn't been at all, had taken a pair of kitchen scissors and cut his hair so short he was almost bald – except for his bangs, which she left "to hide that horrible scar." Dudley had laughed himself silly; the next morning, however, Harry had gotten up to find his hair exactly as it had been before Aunt Petunia had sheared it off. He returned to school with normal hair and a smattering of dark bruises hidden underneath his baggy t-shirt.

Another time, Aunt Petunia had been trying to force him into a revolting old sweater of Dudley's (brown with orange puff balls). The harder she tried to pull it over his head, the smaller it seemed to become. Thankfully, Petunia neglected to tell Harry's uncle about the incident. On the other hand, Harry had gotten into terrible trouble for being found on the roof of the school kitchens. Dudley's gang had been chasing him as usual when, as much to Harry's surprise as anyone else's, there he was sitting on the chimney. The Dursleys had received a very angry letter from Harry's headmistress, telling them that Harry had been climbing school buildings. (Harry ate nothing but scraps from the school dump for the next week.)(Harry went hungry.)

The worst incident by far had occurred on Dudley's eleventh birthday. The family had planned to go to the zoo while Harry was left behind under the care of their elderly neighbor, Mrs. Figg. Unfortunately for the Dursleys, Mrs. Figg had broken her tibia and they were forced to bring Harry. Harry found the trip to be the most exiting thing in the world, but by the time they reached the reptile house, Dudley's continuously moaned mantra, "this is boring," was getting on his nerves.

Dudley huffed and waddled away from one of the tanks, allowing Harry to get a good look at the largest snake in the place. He wouldn't have been surprised if it had died of boredom itself – no company except stupid people drumming their fingers on the glass trying to disturb it all day long. It was worse than having a cupboard as a bedroom, where the only visitor was Aunt Petunia hammering on the door to wake you up; at least he got to visit the rest of the house.

"I wish we were free," Harry whispered in longing as he gazed at the snake. The serpent suddenly twitched awake. Slowly, very slowly, it raised its head until its eyes were level with Harry's. The boy gasped.

"You're beautiful," he whispered.

The snake jerked its head toward Uncle Vernon and Dudley. Raising its eyes to the ceiling, it gave Harry a look that said quite plainly, "I get that all the time."

"I know," Harry murmured through the glass. "Where were you taken from, anyway?' The snake jabbed its tail at a little sign next to the glass. Harry peered at it. It read: _Boa Constrictor, Brazil._

"Was it nice there?"

The boa constrictor jabbed its tail at the sign again and Harry read on:

_This specimen was bred in the zoo._ "Oh, I see - so you've never been to Brazil?"

As the snake shook its head, a deafening shout behind Harry made both of them jump.

"MUM! DAD! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON'T BELIEVE WHAT IT'S DOING!"

Dudley came waddling toward them as fast as he could. "Out of the way, you," he said, punching Harry in the ribs. Caught by surprise, Harry fell hard on the concrete floor. What came next occurred so fast no one saw how it happened - one second, Dudley was leaning right up close to the glass; the next, he had leapt back with a howl of horror. Harry sat up and gasped; the glass front of the boa constrictor's tank had vanished. The great snake was uncoiling itself rapidly, slithering out onto the floor. People throughout the reptile house screamed and started running for the exits. As the snake slid swiftly past him, Harry could have sworn a low, hissing voice said, "Brassssssil, here I come... Thanksss, ssspeaker."

As a result of that incident, Harry's uncle hadn't let him out of the cupboard for the next month of summer, and he only survived because Petunia slipped him meal scraps every once in a while. By the time he was let out, his cupboard stunk of urine and feces, his bucket having overflowed. He was forced to spend hours scrubbing it out with bleach.

When the letter came, Harry thought it marked a change in his fortune. Surely, things were finally going to get better.

**oOOOo**

In mid July, as he went about his daily task of collecting the mail, Harry was shocked to find a letter addressed to himself. Its existence set off a chain of unprecedented events. Petunia almost fainted at the sight of it, and Vernon looked as if he was about to asphyxiate. The letter was burned, and they thought that would be the end of it - but it wasn't.

More of the letters continued to make their way inside, causing Vernon to board up all the openings in the house in a fit of paranoia. When letters suddenly began pouring into the house via chimney one Sunday morning, Vernon snapped. By noon the next day, the whole family was tucked away inside a rickety old cabin perched on a rock in the sea, two miles from the coast. Aunt Petunia found a few moldy blankets in the second room and made up a bed for Dudley on the moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle Vernon went off to the lumpy bed next door, and Harry was left to find the softest bit of floor he could and to curl up under the thinnest, most ragged blanket. The Dursleys had once again conveniently forgotten that it was Harry's birthday.

Dudley's snores were drowned out by the low rolls of thunder that started around midnight. The lighted dial of Dudley's watch, which was dangling over the edge of the sofa on his fat wrist, told Harry he'd be eleven in ten minutes' time. He lay and watched his birthday tick nearer, wondering if the Dursleys would remember at all, wondering where the letter writer was now. One minute to go and he'd be eleven. Thirty seconds... twenty ... ten...nine – (maybe he'd wake Dudley up, just to annoy him)(maybe something less outgoing) - three... two...one...

BOOM.

The whole shack shuddered and Harry sat bolt upright, staring at the door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.

**oOOOo**

Harry was a wizard. Harry had a wand he couldn't use, books he couldn't read, and a messenger owl with nothing to deliver. He was standing in front of the divide between platforms nine and ten, looking at his ticket with a pained expression on his face. He had been utterly overwhelmed.

( put in transition about Hagrid) Harry had been informed that he was famous for the defeat of a dark wizard whose name was never said, and that he was revered for his actions on a night he couldn't even remember – a night that culminated in the deaths of his parents. Harry had done his best to shy away from the people who clamored to approach him, but Hagrid seemed content to let them surround Harry, shaking his hand and patting his head and shoulders. The boy drew further and further into himself, trying not to scream as people continued to touch and surround him. He was visibly shaking by the time Hagrid decided that they had to get going.

Their first stop was Gringotts bank, where Harry discovered that he was not only famous, but also rich. Hagrid then proceeded to hurry him along as they bought his trunk, books, equipment, and robes. They split up on the doorstep of Olivander's, as Hagrid had to run an errand.

After being browbeaten by a rather stubborn measuring tape, Harry watched nervously as the mysterious Ollivander began pulling out wands.

"Maple and phoenix feather, seven inches, quite whippy. Try -"

Harry tried - but he had hardly raised the wand when it was snatched back by Mr. Ollivander.

"No, no – here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out."

Harry tried. And tried. He had no idea what Mr. Ollivander was waiting for. The pile of tried wands was mounting higher and higher on the spindly chair, but the more wands Mr. Ollivander pulled from the shelves, the happier he seemed to become. "Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere - I wonder, now - - yes, why not - unusual combination - holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."

Harry took the wand. He felt a sudden warmth in his fingers, which steadily built into a painful burning sensation. He tried to drop the wand but his hand wouldn't cooperate. The wand became hotter and hotter until Harry screamed, and a snap was heard as the wand finally fell to the ground.

"No, no, no. That is definitely not it. I do apologize for the violent reaction, Mr. Potter," Ollivander stuttered as he quickly made his way over to examine Harry's hand. The wandmaker frowned upon seeing the damage. "Oh, my. I'm afraid this is a magical burn, so I can't heal it and it will probably scar. We'll just bandage it up for now."

A swish of the old man's wand and Harry's hand was neatly wrapped. Ollivander tapped his head thoughtfully.

"Well, the phoenix feathers in the other wands didn't seem to object this strongly, so it must have been the holly that did it." Ollivander squinted. "Hmm. In any case, the wand's useless now, but you might as well take it. You never know when these things might come in handy, and you did have a rather unusual reaction."

As Harry grabbed hold of the charred wand, he thought he felt something reach out and pull at him. He quickly opened up his trunk and dropped the wand inside. He turned around, only to jump back, startled to find Ollivander's hands holding a box an inch from his face.

"Try this," the wandmaker said. "Another unusual combination, acacia and phoenix feather. This is one of only three acacia wands I have ever made, Mr. Potter."

Harry gingerly took the wand, letting out a sigh as he felt the coolness wash over him.

Harry was shaken out of his memories by the hustle and bustle of a large red headed family approaching.

**AN: First chapter of a story I came up with years ago. I might continue it and I would love any opinions on it. I am also looking for a beta if anyone is interested. **


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